


Anchor

by empiremind (justlikeabaroness)



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Drowning, Flashback, Gen, Pre-Campaign, a curse word or two, because caleb is not quite as sweary as liam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-03-13 01:15:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13559556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justlikeabaroness/pseuds/empiremind
Summary: Try not to panic.One reason Caleb doesn't wash his entire body.





	Anchor

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by warsawmouse and fluffybunnyremi over in the tags on tumblr, but my brain took it and ran.

Despite his upbringing (no, not the slightly-impoverished-nobility part; the outcast part, the ‘living off the land’ part that ought to have led him to casual dives in random streams to fish and pass time, but never did) - Caleb never learned to swim. 

He’d had his nose in a book the whole time, of course; being the town weirdo hadn’t been so bad after a fashion. But reading about witch trials that happened two hundred years ago in Tal’dorei haven’t prepared him for _this one, today_ , in Wildemount, and he’s afraid - of course he is, anyone with a brain would be afraid. Especially since they’ve likely found his holy symbol and they know that it’s not one handed out by the friendly priest in town. 

That priest is shouting now, reading from a prepared text against the evils of necromancers, of witches and so on, against wizards who are dangerous and unpredictable and not loyal to anyone but themselves. Blah, blah. Caleb can’t hear him; the wind is against his back, and the town docks abut a giant boulder that rolled to the riverbank centuries ago, so all the sound is coming from his right side, with his left all but pressed against rock. 

Besides, there’s too many shouts, too many angry curses thrown to land just behind him - the rotten vegetables, on the other hand, strike him often; what looks like a cabbage leaves rotted goop at the hem of his robes, and a desiccated eggplant strikes him square in the back of the neck, leaving him dizzied and unsure, leaning forward, as if to push his head down into supplication and defeat. He shifts between the two stout guardsmen flanking him, arching his wrists to find a marginally more comfortable way to hold them in their ties. His feet are locked together with iron cuffs, and there’s not a damned thing he can do about that. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, at least trying to ensure his legs don’t go to sleep. It looks tough.

But then, the man stops talking, and the guards start dragging him forward to the small launch where boats are dropped into the river, along with suspected witches and other such generalized evil. Now is the time he starts to struggle against his tied hands, to flail his cuffed legs, feeling breath leaving his lungs that are being filled entirely with a rising sense of belated panic. 

Caleb is many things, but he is not strong, and soon his head is underwater; his eyes take in the vomit-green hellscape of the river’s underbelly as he fights not to scream for help; the plants wave as if beckoning to his chained feet, and whatever tiny fish or other lives that manage to exist here flee in terror as he sinks through their paths. He does know how a witch trial goes; if he floats, they’ll hang him - but he only has so long to hold his breath. A few more months of study might have bought him his Water Breathing spell - but he’s not that lucky. 

No, all he can do is sink as deep as he can, wait out the time, and try not to panic. _Try not to panic._ It’s a tall order. 

And yet ... it can’t be much longer, surely? ... His vision is starting to fade; his mind is full up with an animal instinct to survive, without a single second or thought to spare for how; sheer wish to not be here makes him kick his pinioned legs like a fish’s tail, trying to get beyond the rock, to maybe surface on the other side and make his sopping, freezing way into the woods or up the fucking waterfall or anywhere besides this tiny little town and its tiny population with their tiny minds. 

_Try not to panic. Try not to panic. Trynot topanic. Trynotto panic. Trynottopanic._

Still, he’s drunk on lack of oxygen now; it’s been so long and his limbs are shutting down. When all power diverts to the lungs to keep the body going, it’s a sign that the owner of the body is in deep _Scheiße_. Caleb catches himself wondering where his body will wash up on shore, and whether he’ll be absolved, and whether it matters. 

His mouth opens against his will, but he can’t scream; he can’t cough the water that bleeds into his lungs - it just takes up residence like a disease. Caleb knows he’s losing - _trynottopanictrynottopanic_ \- but he struggles, swimming - well, more like flailing - okay, more like leaning - 

\- and wakes up on the floor of the Nestlenook Inn, dry, shirt clinging to his damp skin. Breathing is still a challenge for a minute or two. And his ass hurts from the fall out of bed. 

Nott is still sound asleep in her bedroll, though; she snuffles quietly as she turns over. Caleb sighs, a frail little thing that dissipates almost as soon as it leaves his lips. Nott’s still here. 

He goes over to his coat, moving the flap to see his books and nodding imperceptibly. Quietly he crosses the room to open the window, and immediately he can feel his hair dusting across his face. He’s safe. ( _Like Fjord said?_ ) The smell of dirt is in his nose. It helps. As always.


End file.
